


The Match of the Century

by Pun



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:44:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pun/pseuds/Pun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are actors instead of tennis players.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ad In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [okdreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/okdreaming/gifts).



> Thank you to my amazing betas! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Okdreaming!
> 
>  
> 
> This work is purely fictional and stems entirely from the author's imagination. It it is not meant to represent any real actions or opinions of the people named herein.

The coffee was black, Roger had time to notice; not a drop of milk or cream or whatever chemically synthesized crap people were using nowadays had been added to lower its scalding temperature a degree or two, before it was tipped with a crash and a shout into his lap, directly onto a part of his body that he considered very valuable and preferred to keep out of contact with any liquid that had been boiling within the last hour.

The burning sensation was quite terrible. Roger shouted an expletive or two in German and made an undignified leap out of his chair.

“Oh no! Oh god! I’m so sorry!” said the man standing in front of him, whose untimely collision with the table had caused the offending liquid to go flying into Roger’s lap in the first place.

Roger had been sitting by the pool of Rick Iddleton, renowned director of Hollywood’s most cutting-edge action flicks to discuss the production schedule for his new film, _Force Majeure_. When he'd asked for a cup of coffee to start the meeting, he'd had no idea the request would prove so disastrous.

“Here, let me,” the coffee-flinger was saying, dropping to his knees and dabbing up Roger’s leg with a fistful of napkins until he inevitably came into contact with the obvious between Roger’s legs. “Oh! I am **so** sorry!” The young man was looking up at him with a pair of deep brown eyes, a shock of fluffy brown hair falling into them. He had turned a startling shade of red and was frozen with his hand still rather uncomfortably close to Roger’s dick. When Roger cleared his throat and looked down pointedly, the hand was snatched away.

Oh no! Roger, are you injured?” Jan, the production manager, came running over from where she'd been standing with Rick admiring his new Japanese Maples that he'd had put in at some ridiculous expense. “Do you need a doctor? Should I call the car?” She took Roger by the arm as if she intended to drag him all the way to the hospital herself.  
Rick hurried along behind her, his bushy brows drawn down with a look of concern.

Roger gingerly pulled his sodden trousers away from the raw-feeling skin of his upper thighs. He looked down at the embarrassingly shaped stain and frowned. The slacks were Brunello Cucinelli and new. Luckily, his housekeeper, Dolores, was a whiz at getting stains out, and even if she couldn't, he'd ordered another pair in charcoal as well as the ones he was wearing in camel.

Everyone was talking at once. "So sorry," the man with the coffee was saying, rising to his feet while Jan insisted on calling the car, whipping out her blackberry, as Rick was waving over one of his staff to bring a change of clothes.

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Roger said, making settle down motions with his hands. His skin continued to sting and throb, but he'd feel ridiculous going to a doctor, and they'd already had to postpone this meeting twice. “But really, Rick," Roger said, shooting an apologetic glance at the red-faced young man with his lip between his teeth, "you need to get better PAs.”

Jan slapped her hand across her mouth as if Roger had just said something quite surprising or unintentionally funny.

Roger thought that was undeserved. He was not one of those actors who thought production assistants were slaves, there to cater to his every bodily comfort and most passing whims, but he felt justified given what had just happened. All other unfortunate circumstances aside, Roger didn't even take his coffee black.

“No. Um, I, um,” Fluffy-Hair was saying, as he turned impossibly even redder. "I am not the PA."

"Roger," Rick said with a nervous chuckle. He made a presenting motion with his hands. "I am really excited to introduce you to Rafael Nadal, your co-star. I think the two of you are going to really love working together."

*

The moment he was in the car going home Roger called his agent, Mirka, and relayed the whole story in one long rant. “And then he basically gaped at me the whole rest of the meeting like some kind of star-struck cow,” Roger finished. “I don’t see how I can be expected to work with this guy. Can you get me out of my contract?”

There was a stony silence on the other end of the line. Finally Mirka said, “No, and even if I could you wouldn’t really want me to.”

“Please turn down your eyeballs, Mirka. I can hear them rolling.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Mirka claimed, although Roger could hear her doing it again. “Roger, Perlman told me he’s going to be really hands-on. Play nice with him here, and we might finally get him to be serious about _A Farewell to Arms_.”

She had a good point. Roger had been trying to get a big studio interested in his pet project, a new screen adaptation of Hemingway’s _A Farewell to Arms_ , for years. The executive producer on _Force Majeure_ , Joe Perlman, had enough pull at Miramax to make it happen.

He let his head fall back and his shoulders relax against the soft leather of the limo and asked, “What’s going on? I thought the brother was going to be played by Leo.”

“If you’d bother to read the daily briefs I send you, you’d have known all about this,” Mirka said unfairly. She knew Roger didn’t read her emails. She should have called him. “They decided they wanted someone new and fresh for the role.”

“Well they found ‘fresh’ all right. Where the hell did this guy come from?”

Mirka gave a long-suffering sigh. "Allow me to read to you from the email that I sent you _this morning_. 'Hey Rog, Leo is a no go. Rick decided to make a splash with the brother character. They've cast Spanish phenom Rafael Nadal. He's been in a few indie pics in Spain and had about four lines in the latest Almodóvar. Sounds like he's done a bunch of experimental theater and the like, but he's pretty green. No formal training. No prior Hollywood experience. Try not to scare the crap out of him.'"

"If he were any greener, he'd be a topiary," Roger told her.

"What do you want?" Mirka asked, not sounding at all sympathetic. "Rick loves his little experiments.”

“I thought _I_ was the experiment,” Roger objected. Not that he really agreed with the people who thought he was a surprising choice for an action lead. A. O. Scott had described him as “that rare star who disappears completely into every role he plays,” and _Entertainment Weekly_ had put him on their list of “Good Guys We Want to See Go Bad.”

Mirka laughed. “I guess you weren’t a big enough risk. At least he's easy on the eyes."

"I didn't have a chance to notice between the attempt to neuter me and the inappropriate groping."

"It was just a little accident. Don't be so dramatic," Mirka said.

"Mirka, I'm an actor." Roger sincerely hoped that Mirka could hear him rolling his eyes at her.

*

A bit of googling turned up a lot of fringe festivals and experimental theater starring one Rafael Nadal, including some sort of X-rated re-telling of Pinocchio, and of course the Almodóvar gig, but not much else. The one interview Roger could find online revealed that Nadal didn't even have a real agent. His uncle Toni filled in when necessary. Roger had no idea what to expect from him at their first full cast read-through of the script.

He arrived before the other actors and was greeted by Rick and Pearlman. Hearty handshakes and the usual bullshit about how fantastic and amazingly talented everyone involved with the film was exchanged all around.

Jill Byrnes who was be playing the kidnapped girlfriend Roger’s character was trying to save, arrived next. She was a petite blonde with rather amazing breasts that she always played to her advantage, wearing fitted tops and flashy pendants that drew the eyes down.

A few of the other supporting cast began filtering in, and Roger spotted Nadal among them. Jill followed the direction of his gaze. “So that’s the guy playing my brother,” she said. “Had you ever heard of him?”

Roger sighed and shook his head. “No.”

Nadal came over a few minutes later and introduced himself to Jill.

“Hello, I am Rafa,” he said. “And you are my sister. Hello, Roger,” he said, ducking his head and going a bit pink in the cheeks, “is nice meeting you again.”

They talked about nothing much, and then Jill said, “Have you guys seen the shoot schedule? It’s crazy.”

“That’s actually my fault. We have to wrap before I leave for London in November,” Roger said.

“Oh, what will you be doing in London?” Nadal asked.

“Our boy Roger here has a gig with the Royal Shakespeare Company," Jill explained, using an exaggerated British accent when she said the name of the theater company. She wrapped her arms around Roger so that her fantastic breasts brushed against his arm and kissed him on the cheek. “Doesn’t it just make you weak in the knees to be in the presence of such an accomplished thespian?” she asked Rafa and then laughed loudly at her own mawkishness.

“Oh, stop,” Roger told her, pushing her away gently. He didn’t mind Jill teasing him a bit. This was their second film together, and he knew she didn’t really mean anything by it. She’d already emailed him asking for his thoughts on her character and some of the tenser scenes that they had together.

“For sure, Roger is one of the best,” Nadal said, not catching on to Jill’s sarcasm. “Who will you be playing with RSC?”

“I’m playing Antony in _Julius Caesar_ ,” Roger answered.

Nadal gave a huge smile. "How fantastic. Antony is my favorite." He took a deep breath and began to recite, "O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man that ever livèd in the tide of time."

Roger was taken aback. None of the oddly stressed syllables or awkward mistakes he’d noticed in Nadal’s conversational English were present when he spoke the soliloquy. His accent seemed to drop away, and his diction was perfect. He never lost the meter, and yet there was nothing mechanical in his recitation either. The grief and anger of a soldier mourning his fallen general came through beautifully. Despite himself, Roger was impressed.

Nadal trailed off a few more lines of the speech and flashed a smile that was all teeth and dimples. “You know the rest. Sorry, I get carried away.” The change back to the goofy awkward guy Roger had met in Rick’s garden was so sudden it made Roger feel a little drunk.

Most of the conversations in the room had fallen silent, and Roger thought some of the people looking at them were considering applause.

“Zowie!” Jill murmured.

“Well done,” Roger said sincerely. “So you’ve played Antony as well?" he asked. Google hadn’t turned up any Shakespeare in Nadal’s past.

He shook his head. "No, I would love to, but has never been given to me the opportunity."

"But Mirka said--I mean, I heard that you don't have any formal training. You've never been to acting school."

"You do not need to go to school to train, Roger," Rafa said. He gave a crooked grin that made the dimple on his left cheek look about a mile deep.

*

Shooting an action movie didn’t feel all that different than Roger’s previous films, but it was definitely challenging. He liked to work hard, but their grueling schedule of sometimes as many as four scenes a day, often with stunts was pretty difficult. Roger was positive that if even he was feeling the strain, the rookie would surely want to go running back to his fringe festivals in Spain by the end of the first week, but the milestone came and passed without incident.

"Rafa, that was great, take five," Rick said when they were running lines just before a shoot at the beginning of week two. "Roger, you can run through it one more time with me."

"I can wait for Rafa to get back," Roger told him with an indulgent smile. Nadal hadn't really seemed like he needed the extra break, but Roger wasn't surprised that Rick wanted to be careful with his phenom.

"No, Rafa's got it. You need to run it a few more times. Now remember, Diego is offering to come with you to save your girlfriend, but you are a lone wolf. You’re not used to having a partner, but that’s also because no one has ever wanted to be your partner before. You have to show that you're wary but also intrigued and drawn to him. I don't think that's coming across in your reading," Rick said. He used the same tone in which he'd said to Roger that morning, "Catering truck has raspberry danishes but they're going fast,” but Roger felt strange and disoriented.

" _My_ reading?" he asked.

"Mmmhmm, from the top: “ _Wait. If you’re going, I’m going._ ," Rick said Nadal’s first line of the scene. Roger replied with his line, but he couldn't shake the feeling like he'd just been called to the blackboard expecting to diagram a sentence and discovered an algebra problem.

Roger read the lines to Rick’s satisfaction after a few minutes and was told to take five as well. When he turned to head toward his trailer he discovered Nadal behind him, watching with his arms across his chest.

“Is better the first way,” Nadal said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah.” Roger felt something unknot in his shoulders. “Yeah, I thought so too.”

Nadal gave him a look that said, _Directors. What are you gonna do?_ , and fell into step with him.

“Thanks, Nadal,” Roger said, giving him a little punch on the shoulder. “He was right about you nailing it, though,” Roger told him because it was true.

“Roger,” Nadal answered, “everyone calls me Rafa.”

“Yeah.” Roger bit his lip. “Yeah, I guess they do.”

*

The air temperature was only sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit, but the sunlight was warm on his skin and bright enough to allow him to see the veins in his eyelids as Roger lounged in a chaise by his pool. He missed the smell of snow in the air and skiing, and sometimes he thought he might kill for some rösti, but on days like these, he couldn’t feel sorry that he lived in L.A.

It was a funny coincidence that these were Roger's thoughts the moment his phone chimed to let him know he had a text. It was from Rafa.

_Why is L.A. so boring?_

Roger typed back:

_L.A. isn't boring, you crazy Spaniard!_

_Perfect weather 365 days a year disagrees with you?_

As if to drive his point home he flipped down his shades and slouched deeper into his lounge chair.

The phone chimed again:

_We have that back home with an ocean you can swim in, good football on the telly, and fishing!_

_L.A. is boring._

Roger laughed. He had planned to spend the entire day by the pool, reading and maybe tweaking the _Arms_ script a little. He had set a personal goal of not speaking to another human being the entire day. He'd meant to just ignore his phone and his email entirely, in fact. He put his phone on the glass side table next to him, exchanging it for his iced green tea.

After a few moments of sipping tea and watching the clouds, he looked back down at the phone. Finally, he put the glass of tea down and looked at his phone again.

"Don't do it, Roger," he muttered to himself.

"No, right. Of course I won't do it," he said in answer and lay back down.

He had his eyes closed for maybe thirty seconds before he sat up and picked up the phone to send a new text:

_Meet me at the corner of Melrose and Westmount in an hour._

He got up and went into the house to get dressed.

*

Spotting Rafa waiting for him on the corner was easy. He would have been hard to miss in a hoodie a shade of neon yellow so bright he looked like he should be directing traffic. The sun glinting off of it made Rafa hard to look at without squinting. The color seemed to reflect off his skin, making him look even more tan than usual.

The moment Rafa spotted Roger was also easy to mark as he broke into a wide grin and gave a low whistle. "This your ride?" he asked, openly admiring Roger's black McLaren convertible. Rafa came up and rubbed the paintwork on the driver's side door a little. "Wow!" he said. Rafa’s smile, all deep dimples and sparkling teeth, was impossible not to return.

"I bought it after I was nominated for Mourning’s End." Roger explained. That had been Roger’s first Oscar nomination. “Mirka got part of the box office and home video into my contract, and as soon we got all those nominations, I knew I could afford it.”

“You deserved to win,” Rafa said.

“Thanks,” Roger said. He wasn’t one for false modesty, but he added, “Denzel was long overdue.” The sting of losing was more than erased when he won two years later for his role as Hermes in _Messenger_ , a re-telling of the myth of Hermes with a focus on his role as guide to the underworld. He hadn’t bought anything after that. The statue was its own reward.

Rafa nodded a bit, and then just stood looking down at Roger with his hand still on the car.

"Well, hi," Rafa said just as it was about to get awkward. He leaned down and, for a second, as his face drew closer Roger had no idea what he was doing. Rafa's face was only a few centimeters from his when Roger turned his head just in time allowing Rafa to brush his lips against Roger's right cheek. Roger then turned his head the other way, offering up the other cheek and making a faint kissing motion himself.

Roger felt a bit surprised by the gesture, but of course it was perfectly natural for Rafa to greet him in the European manner. Living in the States had gotten Roger out of the habit, but Rafa had only just arrived here.

*

"I didn't know you liked the places like this," Rafa said, gesturing around at the picnic tables, the paper plates and plastic utensils of the fish shack where they'd pulled off the highway to eat.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Roger asked. He took a pull of his Corona, the slight taste of lime and maltiness washing down his last bite of fish taco.

"I figure you eat only the steak and oysters in fancy restaurants."

"Really? Why?"

Rafa shrugged and made a vague gesture in the air from the vicinity of the top of Roger's head to his chest. "You are always so stylish. How much did those sunglasses cost you?"

Roger pulled his sunglasses from his head and looked down at them. "A normal pair goes for 350, but I paid extra to have these frames custom fitted because I don't like any pinching on my nose, and--what? What is so funny? You're wearing Oakleys.”

Rafa pulled his own sunglasses off his head and passed them across the table to Roger. "No, this is fakes," he said. "I got them from a guy on the sidewalk for five dollars."

Roger could believe that. Under his abominable neon hoodie, Rafa was wearing a dark gray t-shirt with an orange Nike symbol on it. It looked like it had been washed a few hundred times so that the cotton had become soft as silk. It clung gently to the muscles of Rafa’s chest.

Roger occasionally bought designer shirts that had been treated to get that look, but he could never keep a piece of clothing long enough for it to happen through actual use. He tired far too quickly of wearing the same things, and he liked to keep up with the styles.

“I enjoy nice things,” Roger said. “Where's the problem in that?"

"No problem," Rafa smiled. There were seagulls darting and hovering all around the edges of the dining area. One hopped within a few feet of their table and Rafa ripped off a piece of tortilla and threw it to him. The bird snatched it out of the air and quickly flew away with his prize. "Only problem is if it stops you from enjoying pleasures that are a little more rustic." He gestured again at the surrounding decor.

There was a comfortable silence while Roger sipped his beer and watched Rafa finish the last few bites of his fish tacos, chasing a piece of stray cabbage from the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

“Some day you must come with me to Mallorca,” Rafa said. “I will catch us many fishes and my mamma will grill them. It is the best meal there is.”

“I’d like that,” Roger said. Whenever Rafa spoke of his home his eyes took on a wistful look. He tried to picture Rafa in his own element, speaking his own language, surrounded by people he knew, who knew him, everything more natural and easy. Rafa never seemed nervous or unhappy, but there was a certain air of concentration, that slight sense that he was operating in an alien culture that sometimes made Roger wonder if “Mallorca” was just a euphemism for another planet—a better one.

"So," Rafa said. "Tell me, do you plan to asking Jill out?"

Roger shrugged. "Mirka thinks it would be great publicity for the picture. Perlman too." He watched a drop of condensation trickle down the neck of his beer and followed its slick path with his finger until he felt the ridges and bumps of the logo painted onto the bottle. "You could ask her out," he said.

Rafa's laugh was too sudden and surprised to be anything but genuine. "No, she would not go out with me." Roger admitted to himself that Rafa was almost definitely right. Jill was actually pretty nice, but she always dated up. She didn’t tease Rafa or drape herself on him the way she did with Roger and Rick because she wouldn't waste her time on someone who had so much more to gain from the liaison than she did.

In the end, Roger could understand where Jill was coming from, and he respected her for taking her career seriously. He was glad that Rafa didn't seem offended by it.

"I think maybe you would spend today with her,” Rafa said. He was picking at a spot of ketchup on the checked vinyl tablecloth. His neck was still bent when he looked back up at Roger. The angle made Roger notice that Rafa's eyelashes were really long. "I think she think so too, actually."

Roger had the urge to change the subject. He followed Rafa's example from earlier and threw some tortilla to the gulls. He flung the pieces with a sharp flick of his wrist, trying to get them past the barriers of their little concrete island and onto the sand.

“I’m perfectly happy with my present company,” Roger said. Roger liked the way Rafa’s whole face changed when he smiled. He supposed Rafa’s expressive features were a big part of what made him such a talented actor. He’d noticed Rafa was particularly good at using the set of his mouth to convey his character’s emotions.

"Where do you want to go next?" Roger asked. He wasn’t sure why he’d said that. He'd meant to offer to drive Rafa back to his hotel after they'd finished eating.

"You will laugh?"

The question was intriguing. "I might. What, do you want to go to Disneyland or something?" Roger hoped it wasn't a more embarrassing location than that like a strip club or a brothel, but Rafa didn't really seem like the type.

"Sort of. Have you ever gone on the tour of Universal?"

"You want me to go on a studio tour? With all those tourists dying to just catch a glimpse of a real live movie actor? I'll be eaten alive!"

"You could wear a disguise.”

“A disguise?” Rafa nodded at him with expression that was just a bit too earnest. “What sort of disguise?”

“No, I don’t know. The fake mustache, maybe a wig, some false teeth.” Rafa’s serious expression was beginning to crack. His chin lifted, and Roger caught a flash of his right dimple.

"Sure. I'm game," Roger said with a nearly straight face.

Rafa was biting his lower lip, and there was a visible shake to his shoulders. "Okay, let's—“ That was as far as he got before he doubled up with laughter. "Oh, Roger, you face," he said.

Roger let go and laughed too, a deep laugh that he could feel throughout his whole torso but especially deep in his chest around his heart.

*

The work on _Force Majeure_ seemed easier once Roger was on better terms with Rafa. The schedule was still packed, and Rick still liked to micro-manage Roger’s line readings, but at least he got to exchange looks with Rafa when it happened. Their scenes together also needed fewer takes.

Well, most of the time.

"I've just got one question for you: how will you know him when you see him? How will you see through his disguise? " Rafa was saying. At least, Roger knew that was his line, but the end of the question was an incoherent blur of giggles and snorts.

Roger bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to erupt into laughter himself.

"Cut," Rick shouted.

"Discúlpame, Rick. I'm sorry," Rafa said. His sincerity was somewhat dubious when his shoulders clearly shook with more laughter immediately after he said it. Rafa took a deep breath and shook himself. "Okay. I'm okay," he said.

The slate snapped, Rick called "action" and Rafa tried to deliver the line again. The second time was worse. Rafa barely got the first word out before they were both snorting and giggling like a couple of schoolboys.

“Sorry, sorry,” Roger apologized this time. “It’s just when he looks at me.”

“Okay, I try not to look at you,” Rafa said which was enough to set them both off laughing again.

“Should we take five?” Rick asked.

“No, no. We’re ready. We’re professionals,” Roger told him.

Rick called action, and Rafa made it through his entire line, but again the second Roger looked at him to say his line, he laughed so hard he doubled over.

It took thirty-two takes before they got through the whole scene, and by that time the entire crew had caught the giggles as well. Even Rick had gone from angry to resigned.

Roger laughed so much his stomach still hurt the next day. He had never laughed so hard in his life.

*

The party was beginning to break up: mostly just Rick, the cast, and a few of the younger crew members, maximizing every minute of open bar time, were still present.

The wrap party for _Force Majeure_ was being held in Rick’s backyard. Roger was even sitting in the same seat where he’d first been physically and then sexually assaulted by one Rafael Nadal, Spanish thespian phenom.

“You have to come, Roger,” Jill was saying. “Everyone will be there, and they’ll simply slaughter me if I fail to produce the great Roger Federer.”

“I don’t know, Jill. It’s the day before I leave for London.”

“Slaughtered, I tell you! Do you want my blood on your hands?”

“No, of course not,” Roger said, but he’d stopped paying real attention. He’d spotted Rafa standing with a champagne flute in his hand listening to Rick with a crease of deep concentration between his brows. Rafa always gave anyone who was speaking to him his full attention. He must have felt Roger's eyes on him, though, because at that moment he looked away, toward Roger and made a little face like maybe he was sick of listening to Rick’s lecture.

Roger motioned with his head to indicate that Rafa should come join him.

“So you will come?” Jill asked.

“Sure, sure,” Roger said. Rafa was coming towards them, and Roger stood up to greet him.

“Hello, Jill,” Rafa said. “Hello, Roger.” He slung his arm around Roger’s shoulders, although whether it was for affection or to keep himself upright, Roger was not sure. Rafa smelled like he’d had at least one or two whiskeys before the champagne.

Jill wandered off, leaving Roger and Rafa to make small talk about the end of shooting and the likely release date for the film.

"You know, you will be missing to me, Roger," Rafa said after a lull in the conversation and crushed his face against the side of Roger’s head so that his nose pressed inside of Roger’s ear. His breath tickled Roger’s earlobe and made him laugh and squirm.

"I want to hear all about your next movie," “I’m going to miss you,” and "we have to keep in touch," were the standard bits of wrap party conversation, but Roger knew Rafa wasn't saying it to follow the script. Really, did Rafa do anything the normal way?

"I know. You too." Roger said, which was how he answered everyone, but he realized that he meant it in this case. "Too bad I leave for London next week.”

“I leave to Mallorca in two days.” One corner of his mouth bent down after Rafa said it. Perhaps he was starting to acclimate to L.A. after all.

“Too bad. I guess we won’t get to tour Universal in wigs and false noses."

Rafa laughed. "I was thinking maybe we could get the makeup like you had at the end of _Paris Story_ , you know, to make you look like the old man?"

Roger laughed too. “I guess I won’t see you again until the premiere,” he said.

"No, but of course I am coming to see your show," Rafa said.

"Caesar?" Rafa nodded. "Really? When?"

"I have tickets for opening night."

"Wow," Roger said. “That’s so cool of you.” Even his parents often didn't bother to come to his openings or premieres anymore. Unless he was seeing someone, Mirka was usually the only person who was there just for him.

Rafa was giving him a funny look like Roger had said something strange. "I am looking very forward to it," Rafa said. "I tell you before, Marc Antony is my favorite."

Roger remembered, of course, Rafa's amazing recitation of Antony's soliloquy when they had first begun working together, but he hadn’t expected Rafa to come see the show at all, let alone come to the opening.

“It is an easy plane ride from London to Mallorca,” Rafa said.

“You will keep in touch, won’t you?” Roger asked. He didn’t really have many friends, but it seemed like Rafa could be one. This role with the RSC was one of Roger’s dreams come true, but suddenly he found himself wishing that he could go with Rafa and relax in Mallorca for a few weeks.

The stars were a bit blurry when Roger looked up at them. Perhaps he’d had a bit too much to drink too.

Rafa’s arm tightened around Roger’s shoulders and Roger placed a hand on Rafa’s stomach. “Of course I will,” Rafa said and wrapped his other arm around Roger, turning so that they were hugging. The noises of the party seemed to drop away, and Roger let his eyes close, and his head tip forward until his forehead came to rest against Rafa’s.

He stayed there like that for a long time, holding onto Rafa, listening to the sound of their breathing.


	2. Deuce

“Hey, there you are,” Roger greeted Rafa with a hug at the _Force Majeure_ premiere. “Good to see you.”

“Roger, you are here.” Rafa beamed at him as if he’d thought there was a chance Roger wouldn’t show. Rafa looked different than Roger remembered him. His hair was longer and slicked back so that it looked darker and fell straight to his shoulders rather than the messy, light brown waves he’d had while they were filming. The tuxedo he was wearing also made him look older and more self-assured. “Roger, I want you to meet someone. This is my uncle Toni.” He turned to present the man standing behind him. “Tío,” he said, “this is Roger.”

Toni was shorter than Roger had expected. He had a square jaw and thick, blunt fingers with which he squeezed Roger’s hand hard enough to hurt.

“At last we meet,” Roger said, trying to morph his wince into a winning smile.

Toni nodded curtly. This stocky man with his severe mouth and serious eyes really looked nothing like Rafa. Roger never would have known they were related. “I could say the same about you,” he said. His eyes were roaming unabashedly over Roger’s face with the air of an inspector trying to read where the bodies were buried.

“Rafa is an amazing actor,” Roger said. “It was a pleasure working with him.”

The grin that spread across Toni’s face was perfectly familiar to Roger. He had seen it each morning when he arrived on set and a dozen more times throughout the day over the six weeks of shooting. Suddenly, Roger could see there was a strong family resemblance after all. Toni had the same strong jaw, the same dimples, and the same warm brown eyes.

Just as he had every time that grin was turned upon him, Roger smiled back.

“Roger, did I hand you my lipstick?” a voice behind him said, and Jill came up slipping her arm into his. “Oh, hi, Rafa!”

Rafa kissed Jill hello and introduced her to Uncle Toni.

Roger had gone to Jill’s party right before he’d left for London and unexpectedly found himself having a great time. Somehow he’d been one of the last guests to linger at the end of the night, just chilling in the pool when Jill had slipped in beside him and climbed into his lap all soft skin and lovely breasts and a scent like vanilla and jasmine. One thing had led to another and Roger nearly missed his flight to London the next morning.

She’d visited him twice while he was doing _Caesar_ , and then they’d taken a quick vacation to the Bahamas together. Mirka had been thrilled at how much exposure the shots of them cavorting in the surf had gotten, and Roger was happy with how surprisingly low-maintenance Jill was. Even now that he was back in L.A. she didn’t seem to expect to see him more than a couple times a week.

“You and Jill are a beautiful couple,” Rafa said to him at the party after the film. Rafa’s bowtie had come off, and the top button of his tuxedo shirt was undone revealing a triangle of incredibly tanned skin. Rafa must have been spending a lot of time outdoors in Mallorca fishing and playing football.

“Thanks,” Roger said. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” Rafa said. He looked somewhere into the middle distance and sighed. “I have a crush, but I don’t think it will be working out.”

Roger though Rafa was certainly being overly pessimistic. He was kind, good looking, and an up and coming movie star. What woman wouldn’t love to date Rafa?

*

Force Majeure, like all of Roger’s previous leads, was a huge success at the box office and with the press. Roger Ebert called it “a mile-a-minute action picture with surprising depth, intelligence and heart,” and then went on to say that much of that was due to Roger and Rafa’s “sparkling chemistry.”

Mirka had gotten an earful or five from Jill’s agent about how ridiculous it was that all the press seemed to want to talk about was Roger and “that Spaniard,” and even Jill had been a bit colder and weird with Roger since the premiere. He couldn’t understand what her problem was. Rafa really did shine in the movie, but she had gotten positive reviews and a ton of other offers out of it, including, like all of them, an offer to star in the _Force Majeure_ sequel. The studio already had the script ready, and Perlman was pushing hard to get production underway by the summer.

“I don’t know,” Roger said over lunch with Perlman and Mirka. “I’m filming _Henry V_ in March, and then I really thought we’d focus on _Arms_.”

“He’s got a one-track mind, doesn’t he?” Perlman said to Mirka with a chuckle. “I’m just kidding. I like that. Listen, kiddo, I’m on your side. We’ll get your picture made, but let’s give them another blockbuster with FM2, then we’ll have more leverage to do _Arms_ right.”

Roger looked at Mirka, but he couldn’t tell what she wanted him to do. “What do you think?” he asked her.

“He’s probably right,” she said, “but it’s your decision.”

Roger was a big star and well connected in the business. They could get _Arms_ made without Perlman’s help, but not on the kind of budget Roger wanted with everything shot on location and the war scenes looking super-realistic.

He nodded at Mirka. “Okay,” he told her.

“So we’ll do it,” Mirka told Perlman. “But we’d better not be having this same conversation eight years from now about FM5: The Majeure Strikes Back.”

*

FM2 began filming, and Roger more or less patched things up with Jill. The schedule was much more relaxed this time, which seemed to make Rick less critical, and Roger was having a great time hanging out with her and Rafa on set.

“How was working with Ian McKellan?” Rafa asked Roger one day when they were chilling out waiting for a lighting change.

McKellan had adapted _Henry V_ for the screen version of the play that Roger had just finished starring in. It was slated to come out for the holiday season, and Roger thought he had an excellent shot at his third Oscar nomination.

“Oh, you know, Ian is amazing. I feel like talking with him about Shakespeare is the next best thing to getting in a time machine,” Roger said. “But tell me about what you’ve been working on.”

Rafa straightened from the lazy sprawl he’d adopted and said, “Really cool project. I played the private eye. Can you believe it?” he asked, tilting his head to one side and clearly trying to stifle a smirk.

Roger answered honestly, “I’m sure you sold it. I don’t think there’s a role that’s out of your range. You’ve got the talent.”

Rafa’s mouth elongated into a slow smile. “Thank you so much, Roger. I have learned so much from you, working with you.” Rafa trailed off. He looked like he was about to say more, but a harassed-looking PA with a headset and a clipboard (what was her name? Carla? Kara?), interrupted to let them know that now Rick had decided to completely re-gel all the lights, and they could take 30.

“Gracias, Karma,” Roger said and gave her a wink which she returned coquettishly before hurrying away.

“Want to go grab a coffee?” Rafa asked.

Roger looked at him sideways, and they both began to laugh.

“I promise I will not stand too close to you,” Rafa said, offering Roger a hand up.

“So tell me more about this detective, what happens to him?” Roger asked as they made their way to the catering truck, narrowly missing getting impaled on a giant roll of blue gel.

“He has two cases. One is like the murder case where the mother is suspected of killing the son, and all the clues look like she did it, but she swears she doesn’t do it. So he is trying to track the real killer. And the other is just the missing dog. And that one seems really simple and just like the distraction from the first one that he’s supposed to be working on, but slowly he finds out that both are connected.”

“Who else is in it?”

“Mary Olds was the mother, you know her?” Rafa asked.

Roger shook his head. “We’ve met, but we’ve never worked together.”

“You friend Orren Moller plays the guy with the missing dog.”

“Orren? How is he?” They had been at Yale Drama together.

“He tells me many stories about you,” Rafa said with a raised eyebrow.

Roger gave an embarrassed shrug. “Ah, you know, that was my misspent youth. And he exaggerates. There were not more than three bikers in that bar. I’ll swear to it.”

“He told me you would say that.” Rafa said, laughing. “Do you know Jesse Ferguson? He was my boyfriend.”

“He was?” Roger asked. “That’s, um, well.“ Was Rafa coming out to him? If he was Roger should say something kind and supportive. But it seemed so casual and strange for Rafa to just throw it out there like that. Maybe this was a language problem? He didn’t know what to say.

“He is a really good actor. Was a lot of fun to work with,” Rafa said.

“Oh! Oh, in the _movie_ he’s your boyfriend?” Roger asked

Rafa nodded.

“So it’s a gay movie.” Roger knew Rafa hadn’t picked up on his misconception but still he found himself blushing.

“No, is a detective movie.”

“But the detective has a boyfriend?”

“Yes, but is just like someone he talks to at lunch or right before sleep. He helps me to think through the clues.”

“That’s cool,” Roger said, but he was thinking it might be too early in Rafa’s career for him to play that sort of a role. He ran the risk of being typecast as gay. “What does Uncle Toni think of you doing a gay movie?” he asked.

“Uncle Toni, he cares only that the script is good, and that I give my best performance. Oh, and that the contract is fair,” Rafa added.

“And is the script good?”

“Is fantastic.” Roger couldn’t argue with Rafa’s happy smile.

*

"You weren’t there for me when I needed you. How can I trust you again?" Roger had tried several readings of the line, but he still wasn’t happy with his delivery.

"I will make it up to you," Rafa said. "This friendship is the most important thing in my life. Whatever it takes to make you believe that, I'm willing to do." Rafa delivered his line looking straight into Roger’s eyes, so convincing and yet seemingly effortless. Even well into their second movie together, Roger could still be amazed by Rafa’s skills. And he wasn’t alone in his appreciation. The article in the _L.A. Times_ that morning expressing eager anticipation for FM2 had devoted more ink to Rafa and his upcoming star power than to Roger.

Yet Rafa hadn’t even seen it until Roger showed it to him. "Toni doesn't send you your clippings?" Roger had asked, surprised. Rafa really should consider getting a professional agent. Roger needed to think of some delicate way to broach the subject in the near future.

Rafa only shrugged. "I guess he worries about me getting the inflamed head? 'You must work the same every day whether they love you or they hate you,' Uncle Toni always says." Then he'd given Roger a dazzling grin and suggested they go rehearse in Roger's trailer. Rafa always wanted to go back to Roger's trailer instead of his own, so that he could eat all of the fresh fruit that was delivered as per Roger’s contract twice daily.

Before they’d even begun rehearsing Rafa had picked all the pineapple out of today's assortment and drunk two of the bottles of the case of expensive mineral water that Jeunet had sent to Roger.

Roger had gotten distracted thinking about Rafa’s technique and couldn’t remember his nest line. "I just don't know,” he said, but he knew that wasn't quite right. He couldn't find his place even when he looked down at the script.

He looked back at Rafa who had come even closer while Roger was searching for the line.

"Anything," Rafa said breathlessly. "You only have to ask." Roger was pretty sure that wasn't in the script. Rafa took another step towards him, and then his large hand was wrapping around the back of Roger's neck and pulling him in until their mouths met.

Roger held still for the first few seconds. He registered that Rafa's lips were as ridiculously full as they looked and very warm. Rafa’s nose was pressing into Roger's left cheek. A shiver traveled all the way down his spine as he felt the moist tip of Rafa's tongue swipe across his lips. Even as his own lips parted naturally in response, Roger was pulling back, placing a hand on Rafa's chest to keep him from leaning back in.

"That's not in the script," Roger said. He sounded a bit dazed. He felt a bit dazed. His lips tingled.

"No, um," Rafa said and kissed him again, just a quick gentle brush of his lips before he withdrew.

Roger felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle as the air-conditioned air of the trailer hit where Rafa's hand had been.

"No, I guess I get carried away." Rafa gave a nervous laugh and walked to the other side of the trailer, biting the side of his thumb. “I forget my line, and so I just,” Rafa made a fluttery gesture with his hand, “improvise.” He said the final word with a pronounced stress on the second syllable so that it sounded like something exotic that Roger had never heard of for a moment before he figured it out.

Roger realized he was rubbing his lips and dropped his hand abruptly. “Yeah. Yeah, improvisation can be good. Keeps you from getting in a rut.” He shuffled through the pages of the script. His stomach felt a bit unsettled, and his voice sounded too high pitched. “Ah, so actually, I messed up first. After you say, ‘This friendship is the most important thing in my life . . .’ My line was supposed to be ‘We’ll see, but right now all that matters is finding where the bomb’s been planted,’ and then you say, ‘Tell me what to do.’ Um, so do you want to do it one more time from the beginning?” he asked. He wasn’t sure what else to say. The whole situation was really weird, but he didn’t want to seem freaked out by it.

Rafa was still chewing the skin of his thumb and looking distracted.

“It’s okay,” Roger said, because really it was. He’d had one or two stage-kisses with guys before, and he worked in show business for goodness’ sake. If he were so homophobic that he was going to lose his mind over one little kiss while doing some improv, he wouldn’t have lasted three days.

“I’m sorry, Roger,” Rafa said.

“Relax,” Roger said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, but I forget that I tell wardrobe I am coming to try on the costume for tomorrow.” Rafa edged toward the door. “I see you on set, okay?”

“All right, see you on set,” Roger said as Rafa left. He looked out the window to see Rafa hailing one of the grips who was pushing a dolly overloaded with large black cases.

Rafa seemed to know the names of the entire crew and, in many cases, the names of their spouses and children as well. Roger envied Rafa’s ability to make conversation with everyone he met.

Roger watched as Rafa joined in pushing the dolly, putting his shoulder into it. Something Rafa said made the grip laugh, and they both paused for breath. Rafa wiped sweat from his brow and said something that set them both off laughing again.

Roger smiled and licked the taste of pineapple off his lips.

*

Roger was walking out to the studio parking lot with his arm around Jill. They’d had a super light day and were actually leaving the set only a couple hours after lunch while the sun was still high in the sky. The air was warm but not humid, and there was the kind of light breeze required of perfect summer days. Roger almost thought he could smell the ocean on it.

“Hang on,” Roger interrupted Jill when he spotted Rafa. “I want to talk to Rafa. Rafa, hey! Wait up!” he called, jogging to close the distance between them.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe Rafa had been avoiding him since the kiss in Roger’s trailer the other day. There had certainly been fewer raids on Roger’s fruit, anyway.

“Hey, do you want to go rehearse the Molatov scene?” Roger asked Rafa when he’d caught up with him.

Rafa didn’t answer. He was watching Jill as she came up and put her arm in Roger’s saying, “Actually, darling, I was thinking, we have the whole afternoon to ourselves, we could go out to Catalina.”

“Oh. That’s not a bad idea,” Roger said. “Yeah, you should really see Catalina, if you haven’t yet,” he told Rafa.

A crease appeared between Jill’s brows, and her lips thinned as if she were irritated.

“No, is okay,” Rafa said. “I am planning to go to the gym.”

“Great. See you later, Rafa,” Jill said and started to lean in the opposite direction.

“But I really did want to run that scene before tomorrow.” Roger bit his lip. “Maybe we should skip Catalina today, and I can hook up with you after the gym?” he asked Rafa.

The noise Jill made sounded like pure frustration and she dropped her arm from Roger’s. “You know what? Never mind. Just forget it," she said.

“Forget what?” Roger asked. “You really want to go to Catalina that badly?”

“No. Just—nothing.” She turned her head and held her palm up toward Roger's face. “I’m going to go home. Bye,” she said forcefully and began walking away.

“Jill wait,” Roger said, taking a few steps after her.

“Really, it’s fine.” She turned around and held both her hands up in front of her. The look on her face didn’t seem fine. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Go rehearse with Rafa.”

Roger let her go this time and walked back to Rafa. “God, _women_ ,” he said, raising his eyes to the sky. “Sorry. I have no idea what’s wrong with her today.”

Rafa was giving him a look similar to one that Mirka sometimes gave him right before calling him “socially retarded.” Rafa didn’t say anything quite that rude, but he did say, “I think is obvious, no? She wants to be alone with you.”

“But we’re alone together all the time.” Jill had spent the night before at his place, in fact, and they’d ridden to the studio together that morning. Roger had enjoyed it, but he didn’t want it to become a regular thing. He thought Jill wanted the same level of commitment that he did in their relationship and felt irritated by the suggestion that she might not.

“So you’re going to hit the gym?” Roger asked. The FM2 script included a number of shirtless scenes for Rafa. Roger didn’t blame him for not wanting to slack off on the working out. “You could come back to my place and use the pool, if you want. Or do you play tennis? We could hit the ball around, and then we can rehearse after.”

“Shouldn’t you go after her?” Rafa asked, pointing with his chin in the direction Jill had gone.

“Nah. Let her cool off first.” Maybe he’d ask his housekeeper to send her a bouquet of flowers or something, just to make sure there were no hard feelings.

Rafa’s hair was short again. The breeze was lifting pieces of it into his eyes, making him squint. “You have a tennis court?” he asked.

“Yeah, do you play much?”

“I do not have time to play very often, but I love,” Rafa said.

“Great, me too. Come on, it’ll be fun,” Roger said and resumed walking toward the line of town cars the studio had waiting for them.

Rafa fell into step beside him saying, “I hope that you are not the sore loser because I am going to beat you.”

“Oh, ho! We’ll see about that,” Roger said and gave Rafa a playful shove on the arm.

Rafa shoved back a little, but then pulled Roger back in towards him and settled his arm around Roger’s shoulders. Roger leaned in to Rafa a bit and tipped his head back to follow the flight path of a gull overhead.

“I didn’t know you were so competitive,” Roger said. “Are you really any good?”

Roger’s tone had been teasing, but Rafa stopped and looked seriously into his eyes. “You should know about me, Roger, that anything I do, I do it very well.”

The air was warm. The sun was shining. There was no explanation for why Roger shivered.


	3. Love

"Perlman has invited us out to his cattle ranch in Jackson Hole," Mirka said, wiping a bit of latte foam from her nose.

They were at Mirka's favorite cafe where she did most of her business. She had a big office with fancy leather couches and an actual view of the Hollywood letters, but Roger couldn't remember the last time he'd met her there.

"Really?" Roger asked. "When?" He knew never to believe a movie was really being made until you were actually shooting, and even then chances were only better than even that it'd be completed, but he couldn't totally control the thrill of anticipation he felt at such promising news.

Mirka had turned away from him to grab the tattooed arm of one of the baristas who was walking by.

"Ryder, don't tell me you're out of those red velvet cupcakes," she cajoled.

"'Course not, Mirka. I just stashed the last one in the back so we'd still have it when you got here."

"Oh my god. Marry me!" Mirka exclaimed. And to think she was always calling Roger dramatic. Talk about the pot and the kettle.

There wasn't really a resemblance, but the kid's answering flash of dimples made Roger think of Rafa.

"So we'll go right after the _Henry V_ premiere. He has some big Christmas party planned for the seventeenth. Lots of studio execs coming." Mirka said this the way a cat would describe a canary convention. "Thank goodness you know how to ski. That will get you out of our hair while we talk business."

Roger agreed absently. There was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite say why—just a vague feeling that there was something he was forgetting.

Mirka continued to talk details in between huge bites of a cupcake twice the size of Roger's fist with about an inch of crinkly white frosting on the top while Roger cast through his mind trying to find the missing puzzle piece.

Mirka was looking at him expectantly like she'd just asked him a question. Damn.

"I _said_ ," Mirka said, before Roger had actually asked her to repeat herself, "do you think you could bring Jill?"

"Jill? Oh, no we're--" Roger waved his hand vaguely. "I don't really see Jill anymore."

“Since when?”

“Since—“ When had it happened, exactly? “About a month ago,” Roger guessed. There hadn’t really been any big, dramatic breakup. After FM2 finished shooting they’d seen less and less of each other. Then one night Roger had accidentally stood her up because he’d been playing tennis with Rafa and forgot that he and Jill had plans. A few days after that she’d asked politely if she could come get the one or two things she kept at Roger’s house back.

"And you were going to tell me this when, exactly? Fucking Musto called me up just last week looking for an angle on the two of you. God. Wasted opportunity. Wasted," Mirka continued to mutter and swear, and Roger thought it best to remain silent and try to look penitent until she'd worn herself out. "Anyway," she said, "I'm sure we can get someone to run with it. We'll pretend it just happened. Did she cheat on you?"

"No. I don't think so." The hopeful relish with which the person who was basically his best friend asked that question was rather disturbing.

"Did you cheat on her?"

"What? No, I--shit!" Roger exclaimed slapping his hand to his forehead.

"You did cheat on her!" Mirka looked triumphant.

"God, no, Mirka. No." It was only that Roger had figured out what was bothering him. "It's just that I promised Rafa I'd go to his premiere. The gay detective movie. It's the night of the 17th."

"Well you'll just have to tell him this came up. He'll understand."

"Yeah," Roger agreed. Rafa wouldn't make a big deal, but Roger could perfectly imagine the disappointment in Rafa's voice and how he'd try to hide it so as not to make Roger feel bad. Maybe Roger could take him out to AOC or something to make up for it.

"We'll have to think of someone else," Mirka said.

"What?"

"For a date for you at Perlman's. We'll have to see if we can get someone else." Mirka was squinting at him, and she’d abandoned her pastry. “Roger, I’m sorry about Jill. I didn’t mean to—“ She broke off and bit her lip. “It’s just that I didn’t think you even liked her that much.”

"No,” Roger agreed. "I didn’t."

*

Jackson Hole was not exactly St. Moritz, but the skiing was pretty good and Perlman’s ranch was palatial. Roger felt like a character in a P.G. Wodehouse novel visiting some great English manor house.

Mirka seemed to be doing an amazing job advancing the case for _Arms_. She’d even convinced Perlman against the idea of changing the ending. The main sticking point seemed to be the difficulty and expense of filming on location in Italy. Getting an Italian studio signed on to the project would make all the difference in terms of obtaining the permits and visas.

So far all of Perlman’s connections at Cinecittà were being cagey, but he and Mirka both seemed extremely optimistic.

Perlman’s repeated remarks lamenting the breakup of Roger and Jill was the only drawback of the trip.

“You two made such a great couple. She could have played Catherine. It would have been great for publicity. Reporters like an angle like that,” he said more than once.

Then, as they were making their goodbyes, Perlman had given him a punch on the arm and said, “Don’t worry, kid. I’m sure you’ll be back in the saddle soon enough.”

*

Roger returned from an early-morning jog in late January to find 23 new texts and 8 new voicemails on his phone. Without having to look at or listen to any of them he gave a little whoop and pumped his fist in the air. He had just been nominated for another Academy Award.

“Oh my god, there you are!” Mirka said, picking up before her phone had barely begun to ring. “Only you would disappear for four hours on nominations day.”

“Mirka, I went for like a forty-minute jog,” Roger said. “So who are the other nominees? Am I going to win?”

“You haven’t seen the list yet?”

“No.”

“It’s you, Johnny Depp, George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, and Rafa.”

“Rafa?” Roger felt shocked and thrilled and strangely sad all at the same time. _Trending Normal_ had gotten enough critical attention and publicity within the gay community to gain it a pretty wide release. Roger had thought that was a bit of a mixed blessing since the more well-known the film was, the greater the chance that Rafa would be limited in the parts he could get in the future, but the Oscar nomination would help to neutralize that problem. Still, he didn’t like the idea that his happiness could lead to Rafa’s disappointment. Although at this stage of Rafa’s career, the nomination alone would do huge things for him.

“So what’s the word? Who’s my main competition?” Roger asked.

“Seems like it’s you or Rafa,” Mirka said.

“Wow,” Roger said. That had not been what he expected to hear.

*

Roger had done a few talk shows when _Henry V_ had been released, and Mirka booked him on a bunch more in the wake of the Oscar nomination.

“So are you looking forward to the big night?” Jon Stewart asked him when Roger went on _The Daily Show_.

“Always,” Roger said.

“You know I’m going to be hosting.”

“Yes. I do know that.”

"Now your good buddy Rafael Nadal is also nominated for best actor." Many of the people in the audience whooped when Rafa’s name was mentioned. Roger noticed that as many of them were male as female. Rafa really was becoming a bit of a gay icon.

"Rafa’s a great actor. He deserved to be nominated," Roger said.

"Tell me, does that cause any friction in the relationship? A little rivalry maybe, like, 'I'll beat you.' 'No, I'm gonna beat you' kinda thing?" Stewart asked.

"No, I'm really happy for him." Roger smiled. He'd never found it so easy to be gracious before, but he truly was glad for Rafa.

“Now, see, for people in my business, uh, the fake cable news business, all of this lovey dovey admiration and mutual respect for each other, ehh, not so interesting. So come on," Stewart said, leaning in, "You can tell me. You guys totally hate each other, don't you?"

"Yes. We've just been faking our friendship all this time. You found us out," Roger said in his best deadpan.

"I knew it!" Stewart slapped his hand on his desk. "I knew it all looked too good to be true."

"No, but really," Roger said, "of course I am hoping that I win, but Rafa is a good friend and an amazing actor. I'll be very happy for him if he wins."

"Damn." Stewart said. "You really are as totally kind and decent as you seem."

"Sorry," Roger said.

"Wait. What if one of the other guys wins?"

Unbelievably, no one else had asked him that yet, and Roger hadn’t really stopped to think about it. He’d pictured himself winning many times. He’d pictured Rafa winning once or twice. He’d never really considered the possibility of it being anyone else. "The other guys?"

"Right. Even though you or Rafa are certainly expected to win, _favored_ as the bookies say, but there are three other people in the category."

"Well, if one of the other guys wins I guess that Rafa and I team up and kill the bastard."

"Now that's what I like to hear." Stewart stuck out his hand and Roger took it. Stewart finished the show with a final plug for Roger and the movie.

Roger watched Stewart film the tag where he tossed the show to Colbert. Roger and Rafa’s friendship, or “bromance” as Colbert insisted on calling it, was again a topic of conversation since Rafa was the interview on Colbert’s show that day.

Roger had hoped they could meet up after the tapings, but Rafa had said he was flying back to L.A. that night.

Roger watched himself on Stewart, and then took a shower for the first half of Colbert but made it out in time to see Rafa's interview.

"So the whole gay thing working out for you?" Colbert asked after they’d shown a clip of the rather steamy screen kiss between Rafa and his boyfriend in the movie.

Rafa smiled and gave his usual answer about how the fact that the character is gay is not the most important thing about him.

Roger realized that none of the interviews he'd seen or read had asked Rafa if he were gay. The lack of attention on Rafa’s personal life was too consistent to be an oversight. Uncle Toni must have been getting a promise in advance that Rafa wouldn't be asked about his sexuality. Roger wondered if that was to protect Rafa or to keep from offending the gay community, the film's biggest market.

Eventually Colbert got around to the Oscars. "So. Are you going to win? Because I don't have losers on my show. If you lose, I'm going to have to go back in time and erase this day from reality so that you never appeared on my show. To everyone born on this day, I apologize, but it’s just the price you’ll have to pay."

Rafa was laughing, but he said, “Win or lose is not so important to me. What matters to me is give my best performance. I know I do that in _Trending Normal_ so that is success. Awards are very nice, but no, is not the real success.”

"Sounds like loser talk to me," Colbert said.

Whatever came next Roger missed because there was a knock at his door.

"Just a second," he called out. He wasn't expecting room service. He latched the chain and opened the door a crack. He caught sight of curling brown hair and a very white smile in a very tan face.

"Rafa!" Roger said, surprised and delighted. He quickly unhooked the chain and got the door open. "Hey!" he said, as Rafa caught him up in a bear hug that nearly lifted Roger off the ground. "What are you doing here?"

"Mirka didn't tell you?" Rafa held Roger out from him by his shoulders and tilted his head as if trying to gauge Roger's truthfulness. "I am staying one more day in the city to film Letterman."

"That's weird. I thought I was filming Letterman tomorrow."

"Yes. They will have us on the one and then the other. But a little bit--" Rafa squinted and muttered, "Como lo dise?" under his breath. “Overlapping!" Rafa beamed at him, clearly pleased with his grasp of a new vocabulary word.

That information had probably been in the email Mirka had sent Roger that afternoon with the subject line "IMPORTANT: Tomorrow's schedule." Now Roger was actually sorry he hadn’t read it.

Roger invited Rafa in. His suite had an outer sitting room with a deep leather couch that they settled on as Rafa began to tell Roger about his premiere and then something about a fishing trip he’d taken in Mallorca. Roger's day had begun with a 4 a.m. call for Good Morning America. He was too tired to listen closely. He let his mind skim along the surface, enjoying the unusual rhythms and cadences of Rafa’s words while he watched the dimple in Rafa’s left cheek appear and disappear like the flash of a fin peaking intermittently above the waves. In spite of himself, Roger could feel his eyelids drooping, and his head beginning to slump to one side like it was too heavy for his neck.

Without pausing from what he was saying Rafa lifted the arm closest to Roger and Roger slid in beneath it, letting his eyes slip closed as his head came to rest against Rafa's chest. Rafa's arm settled around his shoulders.

There was nothing awkward or weird about it. Roger felt more comfortable and relaxed than he had in ages, and Rafa kept on talking just as he had been with only a slight hitch in his breath as Roger extended his right arm so that it lay across Rafa's stomach and curled around his side.

Rafa had finished describing his fishing exploits and was telling Roger about a car he’d seen parked outside Spago. "You know was such a cool car, but I don't know what kind. So Uncle Toni found out for me is the Aston Martin," Rafa said. "I thought about how you bought yourself a car for your first Oscar nomination, and I wonder should I do the same?"

"Yeah, you should," Roger tried to say, but it came out as just a sleepy slur. He laughed at himself and turned his face in more so that it was pressed up against Rafa's chest.

Rafa was wearing that same Nike t-shirt he'd worn the day they'd spent driving up the California coast during the filming of the first _Force Majeure_. The fabric was as soft as it looked against Roger's cheek and his lips, so he rubbed his face into it, trying to get more of it against his skin.

"Stop! That tickles," Rafa said. He made a noise that was part yelp, part giggle, and tried to squirm away. Roger tightened his hold on Rafa's torso, pinning him in place and keeping up the face rubbing motion.

Roger was strong, but Rafa was a bit stronger, and he had leverage and energy on his side. He struggled free by hauling Roger up into a seated position by his armpits.

They were both laughing and a bit out of breath. Rafa’s face was very close. His eyes really were the warmest shade of brown that Roger had ever seen, and his lips were the color of ripening cherries. Roger thought they would feel as soft as the fabric of Rafa’s t-shirt, and so he brushed his fingertips against them to check. The skin was like silk, and Roger kept tracing from one corner of Rafa’s mouth to the other until Rafa’s lips parted slightly and caught the tip of Roger’s index finger between his teeth.

Rafa’s mouth was an inferno. Roger thought the skin of his finger might be seared right off as Rafa sucked it in all the way down to the second knuckle. Roger withdrew it with a wet sounding pop, then he shifted onto his knees and braced one hand against the back of the couch so that he could lean forward and press his mouth to Rafa's.

Nothing happened at first. There was just Rafa's lips against his, warm and lush, but unmoving. Roger tried applying more pressure. He slipped the tip of his tongue across Rafa's lower lip and bit it a little.

Rafa made a noise like a stifled sob, and then his hands were tight on Roger's hips, tugging Roger to him so that their bodies were crushed together, and Roger was sort of straddling one of Rafa's thighs.

Rafa's mouth opened, and Roger felt Rafa’s tongue push inside, moving against Roger’s tongue, the roof of his mouth.

They kissed deeply until Roger pulled away to get some air. Rafa's hands came up to cradle Roger's face, and he was pulling him down for kiss after kiss after kiss between panting breaths.

With a will of their own, Roger’s hips pushed forward, grinding against Rafa's leg. He couldn’t help but moan as the wave of pleasure reverberated out from his groin to the base of his spine, and through his entire body.

Rafa groaned too and let his legs fall open, so that Roger's thigh slipped deeper between them, and Roger could feel the heat and hardness of Rafa's erection pushing into him. Roger’s eyes flew open, startled as if he’d been burnt.

"Whoa," Roger said. He was sort of slumped against Rafa, and he had to be careful as he struggled to get upright so as to avoid kneeing Rafa in the nuts. Rafa kept reaching for him and trying to pull him back in until Roger said, "Rafa, hey, hang on a second."

They got themselves disentangled then, both sitting up straight. Roger's breath was still coming a bit fast, but no part of him was touching any part of Rafa. There was a good three centimeters of space between their thighs.

“Sorry. I don’t know what that was,” Roger said.

“Don’t you?” Rafa asked. He was looking at Roger with an expression that was so gentle, so nakedly happy that Roger had to turn away from it.

“I don’t— Are you in love with me?” Roger asked.

Rafa’s voice was completely steady and normal as he said, “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”

Rafa met Roger's eyes with a sweet and open expression. Saying hello could make Rafa blush, but admitting to his deepest feelings seemed to cause him no more pain or anxiety than if Roger had asked him the time.

Roger didn't know how a person ended up like that. What sort of cruelty-free life had Rafa led that gave him the ability to expose himself to people so easily?

Rafa loved him. Roger didn’t know how to cope with that information. Women had told him they loved him before, but he had always felt sort of detached from it, maybe slightly annoyed. He had never felt like this, like his throat was being filled with cement, and his heart was trying to burst right out of his chest. How could Rafa have fallen in love with him? How could Roger even begin to deal with it?

"Rafa," he said. He put a hand on Rafa's arm. All he meant to do was squeeze, but then he found himself pulling Rafa in and wrapping his arms around him. Rafa dropped his head, and Roger could feel Rafa's breath hot and moist on his neck. He felt like a terrible person because this could seem like leading Rafa on, but he couldn’t make himself let go. "Oh, Rafa,” he said. “I'm so sorry."

Rafa pulled away from him. He was searching Roger’s face with a perplexed frown. “You don’t love me?” Rafa asked. Roger had never seen Rafa’s face look so serious and sad before.

“I love you as a friend,” Roger said, but that felt wrong. “I love being around you. I care about you,” he amended. He wanted to tell Rafa the truth because he knew that Rafa would never lie to him. “Really, I do care about you. A lot. And obviously I’m attracted to you.” He’d forced himself to ignore the physical attraction, somehow, but there was no denying it anymore. “Maybe if things were different, but I’m so close now to being where I want to be. You know, with my career, and that has to come first."

Rafa's face darkened. "Career?" he asked.

"I mean, I have goals, you know? I want to keep on getting the leading man roles and not just be put in some gay box. I've already won one Oscar, and now I have my third nomination. You might win, but I could win too, and I’m sure I would win for A Farewell to Arms, if I could just get it made, but that would never happen if people thought I was gay or bi or whatever."

Rafa’s eyebrows were drawn down, and his mouth was pinched and severe. "No? Why not?"

"You know why not, God.” Roger stood so that he could pace as he listed his arguments. “He’s basically Ernest Hemingway, the archetypical 'red-blooded American.' It's already bad enough that I'm Swiss. European _and_ I like to take it up the ass? Forget it."

Rafa stood up. There were two spots of color on his cheeks, and his hands were clenched into fists. "Oh, is no problem, then. You can give it to me up the ass. I will be the faggot, and you will be the real man with a good career." Rafa’s right eye was squinting more than his left, and his lips were drawn back like he was about to scream or cry.

"Rafa, come on. You know that's not what I meant." Roger tried to put a hand on Rafa’s arm, but Rafa shook it off.

"No, Roger. I am knowing what you mean. You think that because I am in love with you is making me less of a man."

“God, no!” Roger ran one hand into his hair and tugged hard. “We can’t all make _Trending Normal_ is what I’m saying. Stop being so naive. Would you rather I was with you in private and a beard in public?”

“What is this ‘beard?’”

Roger laughed bitterly. “A beard is a woman a gay man dates to make it look like he’s straight.”

“Ah,” Rafa nodded. “A woman for appearances?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have the beards already, Roger.” Rafa snorted. “All of your dates are chosen by Mirka.”

“Jill wasn’t—I mean, Mirka said that I should, but—“

“I could have accept that you don’t love me.” Rafa cut him off. His chest was visibly moving with each breath, and his English was deteriorating rapidly. “That you are coward, no. Me niego a aceptarlo.” Rafa slammed the side of his fist against his leg. “Goodbye, Roger,” he said. His features looked crumpled like someone had squeezed them in their fist. Roger did not get to study them for long before Rafa put his hand over his face and walked quickly from the room.

Roger stared dumbly at the closed door. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. He wished that someone would yell “Cut!” and make everything snap back to the way it had been five minutes before.

“Fuck!” he shouted. “Fucking, fuck!” He threw a book across the room and punched the wall hard enough to bruise two of his knuckles.

*

Roger stood just off the stage of the Letterman set and listened to Rafa give all his usual answers to all of the usual questions about _Trending Normal_.

Then Letterman asked Rafa about Roger. After their fight last night, Roger could not imagine how Rafa would answer that question. He felt all of the muscles on the back of his neck tighten painfully.

“Roger is—I cannot say the greatest of all time, is hard to say greatest of all time, but he is greatest of my lifetime. He is—an actor like Roger who can do stage, cinema, Shakespeare, action, comedy.”

“Right, he’s so versatile,” Letterman agreed.

“No, I cannot say greatest _all time_. I did not see Olivier. I did not see Burbage, you know? But in my lifetime, yes, he is the greatest I’ve seen. He is perfect.”

Roger had to hold a hand to his heart because he felt like it might literally leap right out of his chest. If Rafa had spat on the ground and cursed him when Letterman said his name, he could not have been more shocked. He’d been expecting some sort of platitude about Roger being a respected colleague and may the best man win. For Rafa to say such amazing things about him after what had happened the night before Roger simply could not understand.

“Strong praise,” Letterman said. “Well, Rafa, as you know, Roger is here to talk about _Henry V_ , and we’re going to bring him out. Roger, come on out.”

Roger had to struggle to go forward. There were women screaming in the crowd as he took the stage. It made his ears ring and gave him vertigo. He could barely bring himself to look at Rafa who had stood to shake Roger’s hand.

 _It’s just a performance_ he told himself. _You’re playing someone who’s still friends with him. Someone who deserves a friend like him._

*

Roger had thought Rafa would be gone by the time he got back to the greenroom to collect his things, but Rafa was still there. He flinched visibly when Roger walked in, but then went back to buttoning up his coat without saying anything. The January wind in Manhattan must have felt like knives to him coming from Mallorca, Roger thought.

“What was that?” Roger asked. When Rafa finished buttoning his coat and began to walk past Roger on his way out of the room, Roger grabbed his arm hard. Rafa did not flinch, but his body went immediately still and rigid.

“What happened to your hand?” Rafa asked, looking down at Roger’s fingers circling his forearm.

Roger let go, and Rafa continued toward the door.

“Wait,” Roger said. “Rafa, thank you. What you said about me—I—I don’t understand.”

“Just because I am angry with you, does not mean you are not a wonderful actor,” Rafa said softly. “I will always admire you, Roger, very much,” a pause, “for your acting.”

Rafa smelled like the wool of his coat and frost and greenroom coffee, but beneath those smells, there must be a smell that would just be Rafa if Roger could take the time to find it. If he could trap Rafa between the wall and his body and press his nose into the juncture of Rafa’s neck and his jaw, Roger imagined he might find Rafa’s essential scent.

That was what he wanted to do. Roger wanted to keep Rafa here and smell him and kiss him and bite him a little and hold him down until he got Rafa to admit that Roger was right, that the world was the way it was, and that he forgave Roger for it.

Instead Roger responded to Rafa’s “goodbye” with one of his own and stood motionless, watching Rafa’s back as he left the room.

*

“Now, I’ve been talking to Margaret Malcom’s agent-- she was just on the cover of _Maxim_ , you know-- and it seems like that’s going to work out for your Oscar date,” Mirka told him when he got back from New York.

“I don’t know,” Roger shifted the phone from his left ear to his right, “isn’t she taller than I am? It could look kind of weird.”

“She’s only a half inch taller. She’ll wear flats, and you’ll wear lifts. It’ll be fine.”

“No, it won’t be fine because I’m not going to do it,” Roger snapped.

Mirka was silent long enough for Roger to begin to feel embarrassed by his petulance. He could hear her breathe in and out a few times. Then she said, “Babe, are you all right?”

He was an actor, so he was able to control his voice, but he was glad that she couldn’t see his face as he said, “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry.” In truth, he’d barely eaten or slept in the two days since he’d been back from New York. Every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror he got a shock. He really looked like hell.

“We should schedule you a real break. I don’t think I realized how much the stress was getting to you. I know it's been a grueling couple of years here. I just wanted you to have everything you ever wanted." The last part was low and muttered and probably only said aloud by accident.

Roger had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sting of tears. His heart ached like someone was trying to cleave it in two. Mirka was a brilliant businesswoman and a true friend. She _had_ gotten him everything he'd ever wanted.

Roger took a drink of water and got himself under control. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm fine. I just—couldn’t you be my date?"

Mirka made a weird half-laugh, half-choking noise. “You want to take me as your date to the Oscars? That’s—“ She stammered a few more syllables, but didn't say anything coherent.

“I just don’t feel like struggling to make small talk with another one of these bimbos. Did you know that Carmen thought Machiavelli was some sort of pasta dish?” Mirka’s trill of laughter lifted Roger’s spirits. “Say you’ll do it,” he urged.

“I can’t do it, Roger. Taking your agent to the Oscars is the Hollywood equivalent of taking your sister to the prom. Actually, if you did want to bring your sister at least maybe we could get some mileage out of freaky incest allegations. Seemed to work for Angelina.”

“Come on, be serious.”

"I am serious. Listen, Rog, if there's someone you want to bring as a real date that's totally fine. You should just ask her.“

Again Roger had to take a drink of water before he could speak. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“I really had no idea this bothered you so much,” she said. She sounded troubled. “Look, I promise, no more setups after this, but I cannot be your date to the Oscars. I am finally meeting with Cinecittà about _Arms_ on Thursday, and then Perlman will be there Sunday, and I want you to wow him with the A-list babe on your arm. He cares about these things.”

Roger sighed and acquiesced. “I’ve been making a few edits to the script,” Roger told her.

“What again?” Mirka asked.

In fact, going over the _Arms_ script was the only thing that got Rafa out of Roger’s head for even a few minutes. He’d re-written half a dozen scenes. “I’ll email it to you. Make sure that’s the version you show Cinecittà.”

*

“Torcelli says if you win, Cinecittà is in,” Mirka told Roger after the meeting.

“And if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, they’ll have to think about it some more.”

There was something in her voice that Roger didn’t like. “You don’t think I’m going to win?” he asked.

“I do think you’re going to win. Joe’s positive you are.” Mirka was definitely angry.

“Then what’s got you so pissed off?”

“Let me worry about it, Rog,” Mirka said and ended the call.

*

The limo picked Roger up at 3 o’clock sharp, a ridiculous amount of time to get to the theater, but it was necessary given all the traffic. Plus he’d promised Mirka he’d arrive in plenty of time to appear on all the pre-game shows.

Margaret had been picked up first. She was an exceptionally striking woman with pale skin, long black hair and bright blue eyes that Roger knew in the past he would have found beautiful. Now all he kept thinking was how cold they looked compared to Rafa’s.

Once they made it through the gauntlet of the red carpet and into the theater they met up with Mirka and Perlman in the lobby.

"Now don't be nervous," Perlman said with a conspiratorial wink. "We'll get your movie made."

"Joe's come around. He's a believer," Mirka said.

"I sure am," Joe agreed in his booming voice. "We won't let the Italians fuck us over. If Cinecittà doesn't want a piece, we'll find someone else."

"Yup,” Mirka said. She smiled, but Roger could see it wasn’t reaching her eyes. It seemed like she was starting to lose patience with Joe.

"Roger, I'm going to just slip into the rest room for a moment," Margaret said, curling her hand around his bicep and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Just at the moment, Roger saw Rafa come through the door into the lobby. He was trailed by some of the other actors from his movie, but he didn't seem to be listening to any of them. Instead he looked right at Roger who looked quickly back at Margaret. She smiled at him. "Meet you at the seats?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure," Roger said. Her head was tilted to the side, and her lips puckered in obvious invitation, but Roger pretended not to notice and turned back to Joe.

They were standing right where all the people were funneling into the auditorium, which meant it was impossible not to say hello to Rafa when he got to them. Rafa gave Mirka a hug and had a smile and a hearty handshake for Joe. He gave Roger only the briefest of greetings and barely held his hand for more than a second when they shook.

"Excuse me, Uncle Toni is waiting for me," Rafa said.

Mirka put her hand on Rafa’s arm to stop him moving away. “Please tell him thanks a million for the introduction to Torcelli. Went really well,” she smiled and gave Rafa the thumbs up sign.

Rafa gave her the thumbs up back, and Roger got a brief glimpse of his smile before he turned away and went inside.

“Toni set up the meeting with Torcelli?” Roger asked. He had to wonder how much Toni knew. Would he have helped Roger if Rafa had told him about what had happened between them?

“Yeah, Rafa just got tapped for a big role in the new Roberto Benigni movie. He didn’t tell you?”

Roger shook his head, and avoided Mirka’s searching eyes.

"Don't look so nervous there, kiddo," Perlman said clapping Roger on the shoulder. "You're not going to lose to a queer." The word was so shocking, so out of the realm of Roger's previous experience that he thought he must have misheard or misunderstood. Maybe Joe was trying to make a joke, but Mirka grabbed his arm the way she did when a producer started calling her “sweetie,” as if she thought Roger might hit someone if she didn’t.

“Rafa is actually a very good friend of Roger’s,” Mirka said through gritted teeth. Her smile was so obviously fake now that even Joe would have to notice.

"Oh, yes, of course. Sorry if I offended you." Joe looked a bit embarrassed. "I just meant that of course our boy here couldn't lose to a film like that."

"The film's brilliant," Mirka said. "You should really check it out." Her grip tightened on Roger's elbow, and then released.

"She's right," Roger said, feeling like he should say more, wishing he could think of something cutting. The house was beginning to flash the lights, urging everyone to take their seats.

"I really must run, boys. Gotta get up to the cheap seats." Mirka put back on her believable fake smile and gave Joe a kiss on both cheeks. Then she turned to Roger. "Good luck, Rog," she said into his ear as she embraced him. Almost involuntarily, Roger felt his arms tighten around Mirka. She squeezed him back.

“God, you're so nervous," she said. "I've never seen you like this."

“Yeah, I guess I am a bit nervous.”

“Don’t worry,” Mirka said. “It will all work out.”

Roger wished that he believed her.

*

Roger made his third trip to the bathroom of the evening. He knew the pressure in his bladder was a complete figment of his imagination brought on by nerves, but he went anyway and locked himself into a stall so that he could at least have a moment of privacy.

The audio from the ceremony was being piped in to the bathroom so that nominees wouldn’t miss their cues. Roger listened as they returned from commercial and Stewart cracked a few jokes, and then turned the mic over to Harrison Ford.

The Best Actor nominees had been warned and warned again that their award would be third to last, after the award for best screenplay.

“Screenplay is being announced by Harrison Ford,” the assistant director had told him. “That means the second you hear him take the stage you get your butt into your seat, or I _will_ reinvent the blacklist.” Roger fully believed she was capable of it, but even as Ford began to list the nominees he lingered.

The screenplay for Rafa’s movie was nominated, but some crazy movie about a nun and a circus performer won instead. Roger hadn’t even seen it. The music played and the writer began his acceptance speech, and still Roger stayed in the bathroom, just staring at the white paint of the stall door.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 _Where are you?!?!?_

Mirka, of course. The writer was tearfully thanking his mother and a higher power as the commercial music began to play over him. Roger’s phone buzzed again.

 _I will send a SWAT team into the bathroom, if you don’t go to your seat RIGHT NOW!!_

Their presenter was Helen Mirren. Stewart was just introducing her as Roger slipped into his seat.

“I couldn’t find you,” Margaret hissed at him. “I had to text Mirka.”

Roger hardly registered what she said. The little intro Helen read, the clips-- it all had an air of cartoonish unreality, until the moment she opened the envelope, paused for dramatic effect, and said, “And Oscar for best actor goes to . . . Roger Federer.”

The whole world came rushing back then in hyper-real detail. The lights when Roger got up to the podium were too bright and the music too loud. His stomach felt like he was on a roller coaster, but his limbs felt like he was moving in slow motion. He could see Rafa still on his feet, applauding and beaming up at Roger. His skin looked golden and his teeth were whiter than hotel sheets.

When he looked back later, Roger would think that was the moment when he’d made his decision.

The music faded. Roger knew that was his cue to begin his speech, but his jaw felt locked shut. He felt like he was filming a stunt for _Force Majeure_ with no safety harness, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to speak.

"Thank you, everyone, thank you.” Start with the easy part. “I want to take this opportunity to thank Mirka, my amazing agent and manager, for all of her support and for putting up with me." Roger felt a lump threatening in his throat, but he forced it down, muttering "Although we'll see if she still wants to after this." He laughed nervously and looked down at his hands clasped around the shiny gold statue. He pulled a breath of air deep into his stomach, expanding his lungs until it almost hurt, and then let it out slowly. When Roger looked back up he could see Rafa still smiling up at him. He locked eyes with Rafa, and when he continued speaking it was directly to him. "I want to thank the director, Oliver, you're amazing to work with. I want to thank all of my fellow cast members and everyone in the crew."

Roger paused. The width of Rafa's smile had not narrowed one millimeter the entire time Roger had been at the podium. "I _would_ like to thank the Academy," Roger continued, his voice gaining strength, "but I cannot. I cannot accept this award.” He looked down at his hands. His knuckles had grown a bit white around the statue. He released them and pushed the Oscar a bit to the side and away from him.

There were audible gasps and whispers all around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stage manager drop her clipboard and start shouting into her walkie-talkie. Roger waited for the din to die down before he continued, “I know that many of you voted for me because you truly believe I gave the best performance, and I thank you. But I also know that some of the votes that I received were motivated by fear and prejudice, even by hate. Some of you think that a man loving another man, or a woman loving another woman, is sinful, or ugly, or maybe just distasteful, and if that's why you voted for me instead of Rafa, then really, you shouldn't have voted for me either because--" Roger's voice got a little thin and shaky on the last few words, and he stopped and pressed his lips together. He licked his lips, but they still felt parched, and so he licked them again.

Drawing on every minute he'd spent over the last twenty years training his voice and his body to do exactly what he wanted it to, to allow him to manipulate them so that he could become someone else, Roger became someone brave and said, "Because I am in love with a man."

"Oh my god!" There was a clear exclamation rising above the general din in the audience somewhere around house left. It drew Roger's eyes away from Rafa for a moment. When he looked back at Rafa, Rafa had sunk back down into his seat, both hands over his mouth.

Roger met his eyes again, gave him a nod, and continued, "I have been in love with this man for quite some time, but I was letting my own fear blind me." It was easier to talk now. Roger felt like he was the Tin Man with his newly oiled joints. "I thought that there was nothing more important than my career, than going down in history as the greatest actor of all time, but now I realize that of course that is not the most important. Love is more important. The man I love, he already knew this." Roger's mouth puckered ruefully, and he had to look away from Rafa as he said, "I think maybe he is too good for me, but we will see. Maybe it will work out anyway."

When Roger allowed himself to glance back at Rafa, he was shaking his head and laughing and maybe crying a little bit too. Uncle Toni was leaning over talking urgently in Rafa's ear, but he didn't seem to be listening. His eyes stayed fastened on Roger.

Roger smiled at him and then looked back down at his hands. They had become clenched too tightly again. His fingers were beginning to ache. He released them and let his hands drop down to his sides. A trickle of sweat tickled the side of his neck. He swiped at it and looked around the theater. Almost everyone was talking to their neighbor or typing away on their mobiles.

Roger didn’t really seem to have their attention anymore, and he guessed he’d said all there was to say anyway. "Um, thank you," he said and gave a half-bow.

The commercial music didn’t start immediately when he moved away from the podium, the orchestra perhaps too stunned to stick to the script. Instead Roger heard a smattering of applause and noticed that Rafa was on his feet again, as were many of the people around him. The light drizzle of applause grew into a steady trickle as more people stood up, clapping. By the time Roger made it to the steps, the trickle had grown into a torrent, and by the last step it was a rolling thunder. Nearly the entire theater seemed to be on their feet clapping, stamping and hollering.

Roger was mobbed by people, crowding in on him, asking him questions, trying to shake his hand or hug him. He couldn’t really make out what they were saying. He only cared about Rafa. Roger could catch glimpses of him threading his way through the press of well-wishers and gossip-mongers.

Finally there were only one or two people separating them. Roger threw good manners to the wind and just shook his head, and pushed away Sean Penn, who was saying something about “integrity” and “inspirational” at him, and at last he was face to face with Rafa.

“I don’t believe you. You are crazy,” Rafa had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of people still trying to get at Roger, the announcements over the PA urging everyone to return to their seats and let the show proceed, reporters shouting questions.

“I don’t like to do things by halves,” Roger said. He didn’t know what to say after that. He’d pretty much said it all up at the podium.

There were flashes going off around them making them both flinch, and Roger was quite certain that at least two people were filming them with their iPhones. Roger began looking around desperately for a way to escape when he caught sight of Uncle Toni, pushing his way through the crowd, like a bouncer crossed with an avenging angel.

“Come on,” he said. He took Roger’s arm and began leading him out of the theater. Rafa put his hand on Roger’s shoulder so that they formed a chain, somehow making it out into a side passage that led to the backstage dressing rooms.

Toni shooed them inside the first empty one they came to and shut the door as he left.

“You love me?” Rafa asked as soon as the door had closed.

“Yes. I really do, and apparently I want the whole world to know it,” Roger said, still in shock over what he’d just done.

He might not have Rafa’s amazing dimples, but he could feel that the smile on his own face growing as wide as the one he saw on Rafa’s. He hadn’t known he could smile like this. It actually hurt a little.

Roger couldn’t wait any longer. He crowded Rafa up against the door of the dressing room, placed his hands on either side of Rafa’s face, and kissed him passionately, deeply.

“I love you too,” Rafa said when Roger moved to suck on his neck, undoing his bowtie and tearing his collar open to taste the hollow of Rafa’s throat. “But what about your career? What about _Arms_?”

Roger couldn’t say how what he’d just done would affect his career, but he did know one thing. “There will be other movies. There will never be anyone else like you.”

Once Roger had figured it out, there’d never really been any contest. If he had to choose between loving Rafa and making _Arms_ , he’d chose Rafa. When he weighed Rafa against a million starring roles, a million Oscars, a million critics declaring him the greatest of all time, whatever the choice, Rafa always came out the winner.

Simple.

Game. Set. Match.

 

The End


End file.
